A Man of Worth- Jocasta
by The Author's Mighty Pen
Summary: Season 4, Episode 13 "A Man of Worth". Denied the details of what happened between Jocasta throwing whiskey in Murtagh's face and the next morning... here is one perspective on what happened in the night between. And the morning after.
1. A Man of Worth- Missing Scene

The glass shook in her hand. Or perhaps it was her hand shaking. It had been so long since she threw a drink in someone's face that it was hard to be sure.

Was this the reaction she had last time? The reaction when Hector told her about Phaedra? Or when her second husband told her he was dying? Or when her first husband… It was all too long ago to remember anything clearly. But she knew her hand shook now.

Perhaps this was what happened when she dropped her manners and became that little girl from Castle Leoch so long ago. That little girl who knew Murtagh Fitzgibbons from a distance. The little girl who…

No. She tried to breath more deeply but all she could manage were short, quick breaths as her thoughts raced too fast for contemplation. This was not the time to wonder. She threw her whiskey, prized and valuable and so difficult to get here, in his face and there would be consequences.

There were always consequences.

A shift in his motions, his fingers loosening on her arm, and a brush of cloth against skin suggested the whiskey on Murtagh's face now soaked fabric. Perhaps his sleeve? Or maybe a… no. For all the years that passed, her comments rang true. He was the same as he had always been. This was Murtagh Fitzgibbons. He would waste no time with a napkin when his sleeve would do and the brush of that dampened sleeve against her exposed arm told her as much.

The fingers formerly wrapped around her arm skimmed her fingers to take the empty glass from her hand and set it somewhere. The sofa? Even his arms could not be long enough to reach the small table from where they stood. But now she could only focus on the trembling of her fingers that fed into the tiny shiver that coursed through her as his fingers ran over her arms to take her hands with his.

"You need no' be scared of me."

"I'm not scared of you, Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser. I never have been."

"No." His fingers fidgeted over hers, as if seeking to find if the spaces between them were where his fingers could fit. "You Mackenzies were never scared of anything."

"That's not true."

"It is for the things that matter." The few shadows she could comprehend shifted and darkened directly before her as the air between their bodies heated with his step toward her. "You were never scared of me."

"I told you, I'm not scared."

"I didn't mean now."

She swallowed hard, forcing it past the tightening of her throat. "You grabbed my arm."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rough with ye."

"I'm used to that." She gave a little laugh, "You forget, I grew up with Colum and Dougal."

"I didn't forget who grew up with you and how each and every one of you was a Mackenzie to the bone."

"If you're only going to talk about my sister-"

"I wasn't." His fingers tightened on hers. Her fingers barely twitched against his but she remembered when he first came. The feel of his hands then. The reminders in each rough callous of the years and events and tragedies that separated them from the children they once were. The children lost to time and now no more than shadows and specters in their imaginations and memories.

"Then who-"

"I was talking about you, Jo."

She laughed. A weak, breathy thing that betrayed every emotion she might school on her face. "You haven't called me that in so long."

"But you remember."

"It was so long ago." She tried to slip her hands from his hold but Murtagh tightened his hold. "You don't remember me from then."

"I beg to differ."

"You were too busy watching Ellen to pay me any mind."

"I've got eyes. As good now as they were then." Soft hair brushed her forehead, his inhale pulling air from her very lungs due to their proximity, and his voice lowered. "I saw you then. Not as clearly as I do now but never think I didn't see ye."

"What could you've seen except a little girl chasing after older siblings that didn't want her around?"

"That's not what I saw."

"Then," She risked the smallest of movements, moving a fraction of an inch closer to him. "What did you see?"

In that moment she remembered. It was not something she dwelt on frequently. She had no reason to. Surrounded as she was with slaves and servants, paid or bought to do her bidding and not question her, there were few things she missed about her sight. Life compensated for the lack and she filled in the rest with Ulysses. But with him so close, with her only vision of him being a boy so long ago, she wished she could see his face. Wished she could lay eyes on him to see what he saw in her. To just meet his eyes.

The oddest part of being blind was learning about the loneliness. So much more than just seeing the surrounding environment was lost when her eyesight faded to nothing but shades of light and dark. But those with sight could never appreciate the loss of something they did not realize they even had.

They could never understand that the eyes are how people connect. How people see one another with more than just cursory glances at clothing or appearance. It is how people communicate they are engaged in a conversation, how they tell their emotions, how they give away their secrets, how they track the tics and quirks of a thousand expressions crossing facial features to better discern hidden meanings behind words. All of those things that vanished with each progressive deterioration of her sight. Each piece leaving her a little more blind in more than just her independence but also her perception. The dissolve to shades of light were all that remained.

And the loneliness.

The loneliness that made one achingly aware of what they lost. And while her eyes, from those willing to admit to her or those forced to honest confession would report, looked no different than before she knew the difference. Knew from the coughs and mumbles of those in her parlor and dining room how watching a woman who seemed to pay no mind with her eyes tended to unsettle her guests. Knew the disconcerting notion that she no longer engaged. She knew her eyes no longer tracking a person's motions or movement and unsettled others. Much like his surly expressions and dour did for him.

But the discomfort of others was her advantage. She decided that long ago. Her disability would be her strength. But now it only made her vulnerable again. Quivering and weak before a man with nothing but a broadsheet to his name and a habit of fighting the same battles with the same results. It revealed the differences the years brought between them. More than all the rest.

And while it might make no difference, with her eyesight gone and with no way to meet his eyes anyway, she suppressed the urge to raise her head. It might disrupt whatever he might say. Whatever delicate balance they managed on the edge of the precipice on which they now stood. Together, for all the strange things on heaven and earth.

In the middle of her bubbling thoughts, moving so quickly none could settle but to pop and diffuse into the torrent of others rising like boiling water, she slipped her fingers between his again. It was easier than trying to "look" at him. He might lose his courage. She might lose hers. If he stumbled or paused too long at the sight of her eyes… at the realization that she could no longer reflect the emotions she could not see on his face.

For as strong as Jocasta Mackenzie Cameron was, she was not strong enough for that. She could not, in her position, in her home, in her domain, accept his rejection. She could not bear that now.

"I saw a girl."

She twitched slightly, blinking on reflex. "That's all?"

"I saw a girl who would become the woman before me." His fingers slipped from hers and her heart caught in her chest, torn from it as he pulled from her. But when they caressed her chin, lifting her head to align with his, she held her breath. "I saw the woman you are… even if I dinnae ken what that meant."

"We were children."

"You were so much more than that then." His words cut the distance between them as the pulse of heat from his skin and the warm breath of his exhales now wafted off her skin. "You're so much more than you believe now."

"I cannae be more than I am."

"But you're not what you believe." Fingers ran over her cheeks and rested along her jaw. "You're so much more."

Lips gently touched hers and she shrank back. When he went to move away from her, her hands flew to his waistcoat and grabbed there. He froze and she hurried to breathe before speaking.

"Please don't leave."

"But you-"

"It's just…" She swallowed and leaned her forehead to his chest. "I haven't done this for a long time."

"Neither have I." One of his hands covered hers and the other one went back to her cheek. "Maybe we can learn how to do it again together."

When their lips met now, she did not pull away. Her fingers crunched tighter in his waistcoat when his tongue swept along her lip and the sound that escaped from her mouth was one she had not heard for a long time. His arms abandoned their hold of her own, pulling her close with an arm around her shoulders, and they sank toward one another.

A light rap at the door forced them apart and she pushed her hands over her dress as if it could settle the flush in her cheeks or the rise and fall of her chest. She turned her head toward the creak on the floorboard and swallowed to force her voice to its normal range. Not that it could do her much good when the shuffle of the feet at the door told her Ulysses had seen more than enough.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to escort you to your room, mistress, as you requested."

"I…" She put a hand to her stomach and cocked her head to the side. "I don't think I-"

"I'll escort her to her room tonight." Murtagh brushed past her, fingers flicking over hers. "If that's alright with you."

"Mistress?"

"Mr. Fitzgibbons will do just fine, thank you Ulysses."

Ulysses made a little snort. "Will I need to have Phaedra prepare Mr. Fitzgibbons' room for the night?"

"I'll prepare my own room, thank you."

"Very good sir." The sweep of Ulysses coat signaled his bow and the click of his shoes over the creak of floorboards faded through the hall before she finally turned toward Murtagh.

He moved at the same time she did, her shoulder colliding with his chest. They both jumped and then chuckled together. He caught her fingers with his hand, pressing whiskery kisses to them as she ran her hand over the cloth of his waistcoat. "Do you want me to take you up to your bedroom now?"

"Will I need to protect my virtue if I say yes?" She smiled, almost giggling when a hurried kiss pressed under her jaw to her neck.

"Only if you allow me." He moved to her ear. "We could take some time getting used to one another."

"I'm sure you'll notice that time's not been kind to me." Her breath hitched slightly and her fingers weakened in his hold.

Murtagh only intertwined their fingers all the more and kissed her cheek. "If you could see you'd notice that time's not been kind to me either."

"You sound exactly the same as you did when you tried to court my sister."

"My body's not as fine as it was then." He hummed against her skin, moving over her forehead. "And there are quite a few more scars there than there were before."

"I've got the marks of three births." Her voice lowered, "And each one reminds me of the families I've lost so far."

"My hair's all white." He guided her hand up to it, leading her fingers to trace over the smoothness there. "And my heart's been hurt before."

"So's mine."

"Then maybe." He skimmed over her face, never quite touching until their lips were so close she could taste him. "Maybe we could let time be kind to us, just this once, together."

"Just once?"

"I didn't dare be presumptuous around a Mackenzie."

"Then you needn't worry." She lifted her head enough to bring their lips to touch for a moment before pulling away. "You're not presuming anything I wouldn't encourage."

"And you're not worried about your virtue?"

"There's no reason to worry over it now. I'm thrice-widowed and I've no more children to bear." Her hand slipped from his hair to his shoulder. "I'm open and willing for a rather indecent proposal, if you ken my meaning."

"I think I ken it very well." He stepped away from her, taking her hand with his. "Will you, Jocasta Mackenzie Cameron, allow me to take you to bed?"

"After all this I think you ought."

He was careful with her. She felt it in the flinch and flex of his hand as he guided her to the stairs and waited for her to lift her skirts to climb the rise. She detected it when her foot slid along the carpet for a moment. And she heard it when his breath caught at her stop an inch from her door.

"I know my house very well." She turned the knob, opening to the space that echoed familiarly around them. "I can lead you to my bedroom without stumbling along like nervous children."

"We're not children anymore." He gruffed, closing the doors as she walked to the center of her room with her shoulders rolled back. "Closer to doddering old fools."

"Speak for yourself." She laughed, "I'm as able as I've ever been."

She gasped when his hands slid around her waist, squeezing at her waist. His cheek matched to hers before he adjusted slightly to kiss there. "I'm sure you are."

"I will warn you." Her hands settled over his, smoothing the rougher skin with hers. To comfort him or to comfort herself she could not tell at this point. "I've not done this in a long time as well."

"I thought as much."

"Did you?"

"Any man lucky enough to catch your eye would've had to kiss you first and since you said no one had lately-"

"Do you not think anyone could catch my eye?"

"You don't suffer fools Jo."

"I suffer you." She squeaked out a laugh when his hand moved to her hip and pinched at her through the folds of her dress.

"You don't suffer _real_fools." He growled against her neck, kissing hard there. "And you see them everywhere."

"I don't see anymore."

"You see more than they ken you see." One of his hands slid up her corset, flirting close to her breasts before smoothing under the scarf she tucked around her neck. He tugged it loose and let it fall to the floor so his lips could explore the skin he found. "They can't catch your eye if they're a fool."

"So many fools."

Her eyes closed, dimming the eternal dusk of her vision to darkness. It was a reflex, one the body never forgot even when the function of her eyes long since failed her. But there was something comforting about sinking into that darkness so the remainder of her senses could focus on him. Could stop herself struggling to see when it would only distract her from Murtagh's dedicated adoration of her skin.

"What do you want Jo?" He hummed against her skin, hands trying to better hold her through a corset and the layers of fabric separating them. "What do you want me to do?"

"Feck me already."

It was a blessing his arms and hands were as strong as they were or the spin he executed to put them face-to-face again might hand toppled them both. But Murtagh caught her and forced their mouths together. And this time there was no hesitation as his tongue moved between her lips.

The simplicity of the motions reminded her of so many past experiences. The good and the bad of her previous marriages that compared to the kiss that forced her to hold tightly to Murtagh's sleeves so she did not crumple in his arms. And for all his talk of having been out of practice, there was nothing wrong with his form as she hurried to respond to his motions while matching his fervor with her own.

Their mouths moved together, slanting and curving over one another while their tongues tangled and danced. His hands moved toward her hair, forcing it out of the careful pins and ties until it draped and dropped about her shoulders. Her own hands, shaking and quivering under the assault to her remaining senses, tugged the band that restrained his hair to explore for herself. And for the lack of beards on her deceased husbands, she could not argue with the softness reflected from his hair to his heard as it caressed her face.

His rough fingers fumbled with the ties to her corset and forced her to separate them. She found the ties, tugging and pulling them with the memory of a thousand similar instances guiding her blind fingers, and let it fall away. Her eyes opened, the shadows of the room flickering and dancing as if to join in their mutual seduction, and then closed as Murtagh's fingers managed her skirts.

As if seeking an occupation, her fingers set to work on his clothes. The mutual fumble and unfamiliarity led them to laugh and chuckle like children going for their first romp. But when they finally managed to leave only his shirt and her shift there was nothing for them to do but pause.

None of the heat had gone, a fact she confirmed when his hands ran over her exposed arms, found her body through her shift, and kneading delicately at a breast until she sighed. And they were not ignorant of their destination, a fact that gave them pause instead of comfort as if they were children budding toward marriage and struggling to understand how it all worked. The lack of ignorance made this more than an exploration or a simple romp. With all hanging over his head, and now hers, this had to be more than that.

Her fingers pulled his from her hip as her other hand reached out to find the bed. She knew the steps, counted them a hundred times and then a hundred times more when she taught herself the dimensions of her home but practice as her vision faded, but this time it was different. This time the blankets and sheets on her bed pulled back to allow someone else to join her there.

She sat on the edge of the bed and Murtagh's legs nudged hers apart enough to allow him to stand between them. The now familiar rasp of his callouses against her jawline made her shiver with anticipation, not anxious nerves, and when their lips met this time there was no hurry. They had all night… Or however long she deemed fit.

He leaned over her, settling her back over the bed, and let their lips move together. A different fire than before. Still passion but none of the anxious necessity. None of the desperation to confirm emotions. Now it was only the building up a fire she recognized as if from a distant dream half-forgotten in the shadows.

His hands ran toward her legs now, gliding over the skin to bring her shift over his hands, and worked higher and higher until the material bunched around her waist. Even through the haze of sensation she froze. She might not be able to see but there was still enough light from the lamps in the room for him to see her. Her fingers tangled in the bunched fabric but he broke their kiss to put hand over hers.

"There's no need to hide from me."

"It's just-" She took a deep breath, "You've me at a disadvantage."

"I'm sure you've put many a people at a disadvantage before."

"And I'm sure you're trying to flatter me because your hands are on my half-naked body but-" One of her hands reached out to find the material of his shirt. "It's been a long time."

"You keep telling me that lass." He dipped over her, painting her neck and exposed chest with kisses while his fingers quested further up her legs to draw over her hips. "But it's been just as long for me. Perhaps longer."

"But you can see me." She bit her lip, hearing the creak of the bed and immediately regretting the loss of his hand on her leg. "I can't see you."

"Then let me show you." He moved away and she sat up but a moment later the mattress creaked on the ropes holding it to the frame and his hand found hers. "You can see me this way."

She adjusted, going on her knees on the mattress and finding his face with her hands. His hand guided hers over the details of his bristled cheeks and down to his neck and shoulders. Scars dotted there and part of her wanted to turn him to his stomach to measure the expanse of his back but her curiosity to go lower piqued at the hint of hair tickling her fingers. She followed it to a chest with hair as soft as his head or his beard. And when he groaned as she traced and followed the lines of bone and muscle, she bit back a smile.

There were scars. They dotted him like a constellation. A few she could guess at, having watched him at Castle Leoch. A few she teased herself about not remembering. And others, so many others, were new to her. So many others from so many battles and so many years. Scars she traced first with her fingers and then her lips. Scars she wanted to help him forget he had the way he might help her forget her own.

With three husbands there was no surprise that the groans and grunts her affections on his body brought out were reflected as she shifted lower. Her hand found him as she found the rest of his body but the pleasure at these touches raised the heat in her the way it arched his back from the bed. When his hand covered hers this time it was not to lead her to a new destination but to pull her away.

"Now we're being unfair again." He shifted, his abdomen bumping her knees before sitting up to shift them so her head was on the pillows.

"It's my house."

"And your bed." The heat of his body radiated over her and one of his legs separated hers. "Which means I'm obligated to ravish you in it."

"And if I wanted to ravish you?"

"Then there wouldn't be any time for me to return the favor." His head dipped to her neck and his hands pushed her shift up her body. "I'm not as young as I once was."

"I did hear a rumor once."

"About?"

She laughed as he paused, flicking fingers out to tickle and taunt at her stomach. "About your virility."

"All true."

"Then I suppose you'll not be leaving me wanting." She spread her legs wide enough for him to settle between them and rose up enough to let him pull the shift from her head. "If you'd be so kind."

"I'll be more than kind."

Her hands found their way around his neck and he laid her back on the bed, kissing her deeply as if to distract her from the progress of his hand up her thigh. But she cried out all the same when he touched her. And cried out harder when his fingers entered her.

The years of callouses were hard earned but well appreciated as he stroked and caressed inside her. Each brush left her quivering and holding at him. Even when she broke from their kiss to breathe his attentions did not waver. If he could not have her lips then he set to work at her breasts.

Sensitive nerves that had, for so long, lain dormant sprang to life under his care. Her hips bucked toward his hand, her fingers tried to find a hold on her mattress or his skin or his hair, and her shriek of pleasure might have disturbed the entire household. But there was no bone in Jocasta Cameron's body that could make her care about that when she trembled from intense pleasure.

Pleasure Murtagh only increased when he entered her.

For all their talk about how long it had been, they fell into the primal rhythm easily. Practice perfected their motions but instinct guided their desire. The dance as old as time itself and as creative as the Lord who made the earth left them panting and clutching at one another. And when Murtagh's hand at her thigh opened her wider for him so he could strike more deeply, there was nothing she could do but hold to him for dear life as another wave of pleasure drove her over the edge.

He finished, prolonging the aftershocks in her body so they could share in the climax, and turned them on their sides. Her hand reached out, following the line of his arm to his face, and pulled him closer to her so she could kiss him. With what energy he had, Murtagh returned it and then settled next to her on the bed.

"They were all true." She let her fingers follow the line of his body to his chest again, running there to continue learning him down to the minutest detail.

"What was?"

"Those stories." She tipped her head to find his shoulder as he turned onto his back and one of his arms wrapped around her. "As true as I heard."

"Perhaps it's just because you said it's been a long time."

"I may not've had a man in my bed, Murtagh Fitzgibbons, but I lost my sight not my memory. I know what it is to be satisfied."

"And?"

She kissed the skin she could reach. "I am satisfied."

"I'm glad." He paused, chest shaking with a laugh. "I was worried I might not have it in me to feck you like you wanted."

"You did it just fine." She smiled to herself.

"I was nervous." His fingers traced down her back. "Could you not tell?"

"I was too busy being nervous myself." She sighed, "Perhaps if we go again we won't be as nervous then."

"Perhaps." He lifted the sheets and blankets over them. "But only after I've rested a bit. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"No, we're not." She laid her cheek to his chest. "We're exactly as we should be."


	2. A Man of Worth- Follow Up Scene

When one has gone without for so long, it can be difficult to remember simple pleasures. Like that of waking up in a bed warmed by two people instead of just one. Or the thrill of pleasure when she could slip from bed unnoticed to find her shift on the chair next to the bed because a man helped her leave it there. Her fingers caressed over the head of her walking stick, carefully propped there for her, and she smiled to herself at the dedication of her household. The dedication that allowed her to wrap her dressing gown- always placed delicately over the back of her chair so as not to disturb her walking stick- around herself as she did on so many mornings.

This morning would not be so different and yet an eternity stretched between it and all those that came before. An eternity she wanted to fathom. An eternity in which she desired to bask now.

Even with the loss of her eyes, there was something irreplaceable about having the warmth of sun on one's face. The early morning let her focus on the sounds of birds, the work in her fields, and the lap of the river that bid her imagine her home. The one buried in the moors and fens of Scotland. The home so different from the one she built here and yet so ingrained in her that when Murtagh returned, bringing all those memories and ideas with him, it was like stepping back into the stone halls of Castle Leoch.

His voice broke her thoughts and she almost turned toward him. An old habit but one that had her wondering if the magic found in early mornings after sleeping in a doubly occupied bed had mended her sight as well. Except that the world still only existed for her in shades of light and dark. With the morning dawning as it was, her eyes were flooded with the brightness to match her mood.

Their voices, soft despite the house's size and the noise of the morning rendering conversation inaudible through the doors, exchanged the requisite invitations and deflections. Etiquette taught to young ladies about how to defer the advances of a man who might seem too keen… no matter how keen she might be herself for the offer. And given the dearth for the both of them in regards to indecent proposals or the chance to follow up on them, they both strummed the tension in the room like a string they could pluck between them until the resonance created a harmony for them.

A harmony reached when she pleaded about breakfast being ready. To which his only reply was, "Let it wait."

It could, she remembered as a her lips curled up in a soft smile. She was the lady of the house and breakfast would be served at her convenience. The rest of the house be damned or fend for themselves for all she cared as she allowed the dressing gown to drop to the floor. Her knees pressed into the bed, depressing the straw-stuffed mattress on the rope-knotted straps holding it above the floor, and she crawled the short space toward him.

He stayed still, waiting for her. His hand at her shoulder gave her the distance to judge how close his head was to hers but her fingers still shook slightly as they found his cheek. She caressed the soft hair of his beard a moment, the tips of her fingers brushing into his equally soft hair, and kissed him gently.

No matter the passion of the night before, or how there were aches in her body that she remembered as if from dreams of another life long before this one, she wanted this to be slow. This would be her interaction to guide. In the dark of the night, wracked with forgotten experience and nerves, he led. Here, in the light of day, she wanted to lead.

Their kiss broke after a moment and his bearded face brushed against her shoulder as he pulled her shift to the side. It slid over her other shoulder as the collar tried to compensate for the movement and she shuffled closer to kiss along the exposed portions of his neck. His hair, loose and hanging down to his shoulders, ran against her face and she sighed a moment at the sensation before pushing her fingers into it so her mouth could move unhindered over his exposed skin again.

He hummed when they matched motions, kissing one another over bare skin at easily accessible shoulders, and ran his tongue into the natural indent of her skin over bone when her hands tugged the sheets out from under her knees to let her be closer. Even with the cooler temperature of morning, the skin of his legs pressed warm against hers and she shuffled to get her legs over his to better straddle him back against the bed.

Her hands touched the headboard, holding them steady so his head did not knock against the wood, and released the tension in her legs to sit on his thighs. Her shift created a thin barrier between them but Murtagh did not allow it to stop him moving his hands over her. When he could he used the fabric to tease her, drawing it over her sensitizing breasts or running it temptingly toward the bundle of nerves he proved adept at managing to her pleasure the night before. But when he settled his hands on her thighs and pushed the material toward her waist, Jocasta allowed her hands to leave the tactile memorization of his skin to remove it.

The chill contrast between the nipping bite of the morning and his warmth next to her forced a shiver. A shiver Murtagh traced when his kisses mapped the trail of gooseflesh that prickled her skin and only worsened under his attentions. For all her desperate pleadings to whatever god cared to listen to allow her to see him, her fingers replaced her eyes in finding his reactions.

One reaction was the jerk in his neck when she sucked at his pulse. Or the shudder that betrayed him when her hands mapped over his chest and her fingers scored his delicate skin between the scars she wanted to trace in chronological order. And even the little buck to his hips when she squeezed at the rise of his ass.

If she could list what she wanted to see on Murtagh, in that sliver of eternity she desired, his eyes would be the first. She had so missed eyes. Missed what they could tell. Missed exploring the depths of the soul through them. And she so wanted to see Murtagh's soul. To watch the ageless evidence of life that belonged uniquely and wholly to him there.

She also wanted to watch his pupils dilate in passion. Wanted to witness the scrunch of them closing in pleasure when she grazed his erection with her nails. Wanted to enjoy the crinkle of skin at the edges of his eyes when he laughed or smiled. Wanted to meet those eyes with her own reactions so he could follow them to their mutual pleasure.

Her hands were not enough for that. It was almost as if she was a second late on every reaction. A second she did not want to lose as she tried to drive him as mad with pleasure as she already was and his fingers had barely touched her. Yet she already quivered with the roil of possibilities at the gentle flick of his fingers against her breasts, or the delicate tweak of her nipples, or the wisp of his touch toward her nerves, or the soft line of kisses he continued to leave over her neck and shoulders.

He waited for her. That much her hands could feel. The tension in his chest and legs vibrated against her to feed her own until she wanted nothing more than to rise up and sink down on him to end their anticipation.

But they were not through yet. It was too soon. She needed more.

She wanted to see his arms. Wanted to trace the callouses on his hands with her eyes the way she tapped them with her fingers. Wanted to track the burns from his work and note how they crisscrossed old scars. Wanted to measure the line of him from his shoulders to his hips and then to his feet. Wanted to appreciate the figure of him in profile to note the definition to his legs and his ass. Wanted to memorize the shape and form of his back to those shoulders. Wanted to finally measure the color of him to see how time had weathered him as it had her.

If she could, she would see herself as well. She herself as he saw her and perhaps a bit more. A chance to thoroughly know herself again the way she had not for such a long time. The way she never would again.

"Jo?" His fingers continued their torturously soft exploration of her skin and she noticed how stiff she grew, sitting immobile on him as she lost herself in a whirlpool of self-pitying thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here." She smiled and tried to kiss him but he avoided her lips so she only brushed his cheek.

"No, you're somewhere far away." His palm, rough with work and labor, pressed to her cheek through her hair. "You're worrying and stewing over something that neither you nor I can change."

"If only we'd come to know of one another sooner than this." She let her fingers curl against his face, her knuckles grazing his cheekbones and into his beard. "Back when I could see you. See myself. Maybe then I wouldn't be so nervous."

"Nervous?"

"Nervous that I'm not what I think myself to be."

"Because ye cannae see?" She could only nod, words inadequate to fully capture her emotions. "You've seen me with your hands."

"I want to see you with my eyes."

"We can't change the past or nature love." His hands skimmed down, taking place at her hips. "What's done is done and, for better or worse, we'll have to be just as we are now."

"Then…" Jocasta worried her lip a moment and swallowed before whispering the end of her question. "Am I still beautiful?"

"What?"

"I was never overly vain. I loved three Camerons for their poetry and their artistic nature but they loved me for so much that I can no longer control. So much about me that I can't even tell is still there." Her hands dropped to his chest, barely holding there when his hands came up to entangle with hers. "Are we here, now, because you find me beautiful or because you found me?"

"I do hope you've not been here so long you forgot that back home you take the blessings and grace the Lord bestows upon you and you don't ask any questions." She laughed with him as he brought her fingers to his lips. "I always found you beautiful. Now I get to do this because I found you."

"How did we ever manage not to see one another before now, Murtagh Fitzgibbons Frazer?"

"We were both too busy looking at people who wouldn't have us." His beard scratched and simultaneously smoothed the skin of her neck again. "I was looking at a woman who wouldn't have me and you were looking for three men who couldn't keep you."

"And now?" She held her breath as his hands dropped hers to hold her breasts.

"Now we're both looking in the right direction at the right person."

Their mouths met, finding one another in a rush and then slowing. Slowing to bask in the sensuous exploration they now sought. Sleep far from their minds, the worries of the morning even farther, and the chill of the morning dissipating for the cicada buzzing heat that promised a swelteringly humid day. They allowed the drugging sensation of gathering heat from the temperature outside to guide the tempo of their interactions and were not disappointed.

Each meeting, breaking, and rejoining was another chance to indulge in the drugging calm of kisses. Kisses that explored deeper with tangling tongues and moving lips guided by their hands delving in one another's hair. Jocasta slipped forward, trying to gain better control of their kiss, and moaned when it gave Murtagh a firmer hold on her ass and her breasts. But he grunted and growled into her as a quest for ever increasing closeness had her pressing and grinding forward on his erection.

They followed one another, fingers and hands winding or playing on the fraying nerves of two people slowly freed from fears as they had been from clothing. And when she could stand it no longer, urged on by the inarticulate sounds from Murtagh, Jocasta rose onto her knees and sought him out with her hand. He groaned when she wrapped around him and then knocked his head against the board behind him as she sank down.

It took them a moment to find a comfortable position, working between the two of them for a rhythm they could sustain and yet enjoy, and then they moved. Steadily, as if cued by the river just beyond the front gate, they allowed an undulating roll to work between them. Between their quick kisses and longer caresses. Between their touches and sighs. Between their touches and moans.

But when they reached the high for the first time that morning, Jocasta wondered if seeing would make it better. Her eyes would shut anyway, overtaken as she was by the pleasure, so there would be nothing to see except the backs of her own eyelids. And her eyes might betray her so she would miss the flutter of Murtagh's heartbeat or the tremor running through his abdomen as his body stilled next to hers.

A knock came at the door and she lifted her head from his shoulder, coughing a moment to clear her throat. "Yes?"

"Breakfast is ready mistress." Murtagh stifled a laugh in her hair at the pause on the other side of the door. "Should I give you a moment or would you like help to dress?"

"I…" Jocasta let a smile ease over her lips, "I'll dress myself this morning and be down shortly. Please tell cook to start serving if Ms. Brianna is already ready for breakfast."

"Yes mistress."

Jocasta let her fingers run in Murtagh's hair. "I'll need your help to dress me."

"Will you now?" He kissed her cheek, "And what makes you think I'd be any good at helping you into your layers of clothes?"

"You helped me out of them." She slid to the side, enjoying the tingle rolling through her body. "I'm sure you can reverse the process."

"It was more fun getting you out of them then it will be getting you back into them."

"I guess you'll just have to find a way to get me out of them again in the future." She found her shift on the bed. "Hungry?"

"Not for food."

His fingers latched over her wrist and drew her back to the bed. She did not even try to fight him. Instead she lay under him until he finished with her… over an hour later.


End file.
